The Sword of Morrow
by Wayne M Thomason
Summary: [Warmachine] A young warcaster's forces is assigned to protect a forgotten catherdral from another attack by the Cryx forces. But what could be worth moving so far inland for. And which is more dangerous; the enemy at the gates or the secrets buried beneath?


The rain pelted down on the gobbers as they continued to dig out the chassis. It was an old thing covered in a coat of rust at least a generation old. But the dwarven engineer had said it was repairable, so the salvage operation had begun. Dwarves, men, and gobbers went to work on excavating the behemoth. A dwarven engineer and a human field mechanic lead half a dozen goblinoids in the recovery operation. You couldn't tell on plain sight whose side the machine had originally belonged to; the forces of Menoth or Morrow, for all the colors had been eroded and washed away by time. The weather here on the river was unbearable this time of year. No one and nothing would chose to live in this inhospitable climate of cold weather and hard land. A desolate muddy waste of rolling hills lay all around them. This land was so rock ridden that no farmer in his right sense would plant weeds let alone crops. Yet battles had been fought here. Men and machines of both sides had met their end here. And it was here that the warmachines, of an age gone by, would be fished out and then reborn like phoenixes of legend.

King Leto Raelthorne had decreed the restoration project himself. The creation of warjacks took time, those steel titans of metal and magic, which emulated armored knights wielding huge weapons and cannons. Yet more then simple golems these defensive behemoths once claimed back freedom for an enslaved continent of men, and had now become the master weapons of its nations. Even with the imperial forges working constantly while the Fraternal Order of Wizardry and the Cult of Cyriss created cortexes, production of the warmachines was limited to the manpower and the resources that the kingdom of Cygnar had at hand. Enemies meanwhile beset Cygnar on all sides, leaving the jeweled kingdom to delicately balance its border defenses. Currently you could not strengthen one border without weakening another. To the north lay Khador, a cold land built more on muscle then innovation. To the southeast across the Black river lay the Protectorate of Menoth, zealous heathens who had accepted their borders as now more their own then actually belonging to Cygnar. To the south across the waves slumbered Lord Toruk, that bedeviled dragon and his spawned armies of undead. Not to mention whatever threats lie across the sea of Meredius. And now a new threat blossomed to the east from across the Bloodstone Marches. The Skorne, a race of savage warlike beings introduced by the king's dethroned brother. So when the royal engineers had suggested the idea of salvaging the warjacks from battles along Cygnar's borders, King Leto had leapt at idea.

The project itself was to remain a royal secret. Retrieving warjacks presumed beyond repair and left on the battlefield. Warjacks that, if brought home were actually repairable. Also to salvage the enemies' warmachines and reverse engineer them, find their weak points and vulnerabilities. Better to know thy enemy like thy own brother, a saying that hit all to close to home in the nation of Cygnar.

To all it was supposed to look like a routine border patrol. And for that reason each salvage team was assigned a small force to "patrol" the borders. Great battles had happened at each border of Cygnar, and so they would all be searched. Seven such teams were sent out. Each of the teams was to be led by a warcaster. More than just a mage, a warcaster had not only the ability to wield magic, but focus that magic through the warmachines. Each warcaster was armored in special armor fitted to the individual warcaster. This armor not only allowed them to channel the magic but also access the technology powering the warjacks. Assigned to that warcaster would be one fielded unit of troops; this was to be the make up of the patrol force. It was up to the discretion of the warcaster as to which troops he or she wanted, the uniforms they would wear, the banners they would fly, etc. However the primary reason to bring a warcaster was entirely different from a routine patrol. He was to feel the fallen titans. Feel if the magic could still course through there bodies of steel. To touch the arcane within the machine and see if it's spark could be re-ignited.

They were simply known as 'Patrol 2'. The force itself had consisted of a journeyman warcaster armed with a Sentinel light warjack, and one unit of troops. As a journeymen, his experienced as a warcaster was limited but his potential great. Cygnar knew the value of having as many warcasters as possible and thus far had been the only kingdom known to implement a training plan for those wizards and sorcerers with the potential for becoming warcasters. Assigned under his command was a group of gun mages commanded by an adept gun mage. A lieutenant who soon would be promoted to captain, for attaining the status of adept, led the unit. Gun mages were a different breed. Sorcerers who focus their magics through special pistols called magelocks. These special pistols forged by the dwarves of Rhul were capable of channeling the powerful spells and incantations of the sorcerers that used them. The patrol force had already been out twenty-four days. So far the salvage team had found three salvageable warjacks. They had recovered two light jacks thus far, and were beginning the process of salvaging a third. This new salvage was a heavy warjack, and in this weather it could take days if not at least a week to recover the fallen titan. The engineers had to make sure everything was grounded in this weather then dig down another level in the mud and then reground.

This had already gone on for a day and a half, slow tedious work. Patrol 2 had begun to explore their immediate area. This was partially what the patrols were assigned for, a patrol force. Secondly however they continued to search for other fallen hulks that were once great fighting machines.

The dark gray clouds continued to flood down rain while forking down lightning and thunder. This helped neither the patrol or salvage teams. Lieutenant T'mys "Thomas" Willis looked back at his men as he climbed up the hill towards their warcaster. Tired, wet, and cold they continued to be the models of professionalism. He saw Lt. Torga begin to wrangle in the men from their swept out search pattern as the fog from the river began to roll inland. Torga looked generally miserable, not due to the weather, but to senior leadership. Torga however continued to follow T'mys's orders. He was still one of the best men T'mys had ever worked with.

For the umpteenth time T'mys brushed his wet hair away from his face. As he looked over the land he couldn't help but think dreary thoughts. A battle had raged here between the followers of two gods. Neither of which were his. The Black River bore the invisible borderline between believers of Menoth and Morrow. How does one put a line on belief? T'mys shook off the thoughts, he needed to focus. It was hard enough to see anything much in this weather, even harder if he didn't concentrate, for a fog had begun to roll in on the riverbank like a silent sentry purveying the landscape. He turned and continued up the hill. All he could see was the Sentinel covered in mud. Under all that muck it was hard to make out the Cygnarian blue that was it's original color. He could barely make out the Cygnar crest on the engine hood, which lay above the warjack's head. He shifted his gaze to the ethereal and could see the magic. The glowing runes floated around the warjack in their electric blue circle. If he looked for it he could have followed the ethereal trail leading to its controlling warcaster.

The gift of seeing magic had come from his mother's side. One of the few 'gifts' he'd ever received. Elves were rare enough to see in this part of the continent Immoren, half-elves on the other hand practically didn't exist. He had never seen another like himself but had heard that there were a few scattered elsewhere in the world. The majority of his features matched his fathers; bronzed skin, long dark black hair, a scruffy goatee on his face, and a lean but muscular build. The sharp pointed ears and elven agility which came along of course from his mother's side. But the ability to touch the arcane, to 'see the magic' was the only actual 'gift' he had received from his mother. His eyes, however, were crystal blue. They were the eyes of his father. Taking a small leather strap he began to tie his hair back around his head in a makeshift ponytail to keep the hair from his eyes.

The machine stood solidly. The Sentinel must have been at least eight and a half feet tall, normally the bright color of Cygnar blue, it was now covered in stony black-brownish mud from the riverbank. The head protruding from the center of its chest, the eyes of the armored helm face glowing a pale blue. Its left arm, a large mechanized hand protected by a large curved metal gauntlet, hung slack to its side under the weight of its mammoth shield; three massive plates layered on one another with a large spike protruding from the center of the shield. Its right arm was a gigantic chain gun weapon, it hung from the large ball shoulder assembly; it still looked impressive even if the weapon was silent. The wind played across its barrels as if it were a set of whispery reed flutes. Smoke rose softly from the two exhaust pipes rising out of its back. Except for the noise and small bits of steam coming from its boiler system this titan might as well be a statue. As Lt. Willis crested the hill he walked around the backside of the warmachine. As he finished tying his hair back he outstretched his hands to the furnace. The furnace and boiler assembly attached at the back of the warjack was the science that made the titan move. The heat felt grand against his cold skin, he rubbed his hands trying maximizing the warmth. There was a loud crash of thunder in the distance reminding all, the storm was growing ever closer. After a few moments he continued over the top of the rise to his Captain.

Captain Daniel Eaton Jr., Warcaster of the Royal Cygnarian Army, stood on the top of the hill looking down at the salvage team working. He was a tall man. His short deep red hair was completely slicked back and almost completely unaffected by the rain. His dull green eyes overlooked the terrain and watched down upon the salvagers. The team had been working for over a day and a half on trying to excavate what looked to be an old Cygnar Defender. The weather wasn't helping them at all. As much mud and water as they dug out around the warjack, the weather would flood mud and water back into any hole it could find. You could easily see why it had been left on the battlefield. Its right arm looked as if physically ripped off. Also the head had been crushed in destroying the cortex. It was a wreck. But he himself had felt the magic still able to flow thru it. He was able to see the runes form, but barely, only barely. Dan chuckled to himself; he thought the whole idea was futile. But the king said he wanted it done. And so, by god, it would be done. He didn't hear his lieutenant come up behind him, and continued to watch the salvage team work. He'd always felt he was an engineer at heart. He'd worked with 'Jacks all his life. From the construction 'Jacks under his father's company in Ord to the fine warmachines in Cygnar's army. He'd fought in two engagements in his career. Both battles had taken place in Ord while pushing Khador troops back where they belonged, one time under the command of Colonel Stryker. Capt. Eaton believed this was why he was chosen for such a delicate assignment.

Lt. Willis waited a few moments before making his presence known. When he finally did speak he startled Capt. Eaton who tried to play it off, but failed.

"Have I mentioned how white was the 'best' color you could have chosen for the unit sir?" he asked his captain sarcastically.

Captain Eaton turned to face his lieutenant, the sarcasm was lost on him though, as he replied, "Yes," he paused to look back over his shoulder to the salvage team one more time "White is probably the sharpest color we have."

"Well sir," Thomas looked down at his formerly white overcoat now matching the color of mud from the waist down and down the arms of the coat, "if this ever becomes white again I'll let you know."

Capt. Eaton, ignoring the taunt, turned back towards the salvage team. "Can you believe that? A Defender. Have you ever seen one of those things in combat? It's just awesome Lieutenant."

T'mys noticed how it was still "lieutenant". Not T'mys, not even Thomas. Three and a half weeks together and the ass still hadn't dropped the ranks. And T'mys was practically a captain himself. It was commonly understood that officers needed to maintain certain decorum in front of the troops, but amongst each other normally officers could lighten amongst each other. Capt. Eaton had kept up the ranks the entire time, protocol or not, the man wanted a barrier there.

"Blades and bullets are one thing sir, but too much reliance on warjacks will eventually get you killed. It's an impressive machine, but I tend to believe our strength comes from our men first." T'mys looked back down towards his men who were slowly disappearing into the oncoming fog, "Even Colonel Stryker was a stormblade before he was a warcaster."

"It sounds as if you don't care for warjacks lieutenant."

Lightning crashed down momentarily lighting everything. Thunder followed only seconds behind in a loud crash.

"Don't get me wrong. That cannon," he pointed to the large cannon only slightly emerging from the mud of the dig site, "That is one hell of a weapon. I don't even know if the Khadorian Kodiak 'jack could withstand a blast from it. And the hammers those things normally come with are devastating. But if all you do is totally rely on its strength, then when it's taken out, so are you."

"So you think you'd do better in a fire fight than a warcaster?" Capt Eaton asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not saying that, sir. Stryker, Haley, hell any number of warcasters are decent fighters. And in a fight their warjacks just become another weapon for them. But their are to many journeymen out there who rely solely on their 'jacks."

"But you gun mages rely on your pistols, without them your unarmed."

"No" Lt. Willis countered, "Our magelocks are our focus, and a powerful one at that. But we still have magic, and even if we lose them we are all issued swords as a last defense."

"Here let me see your pistol Lieutenant." It sounded like a request but both men knew it was an order. Lt. Willis upholstered the pistol, a Cygnar issued magelock made by the Rhullic smiths especially for the kingdom. He then grabbed the barrel and handed the grip to his Captain. "Careful sir, it's loaded."

Capt. Eaton looked at the magelock carefully. Never before had he held such a pistol. It was a finely crafted weapon, with dwarven runes down the barrel and in the inlay of the cherry wood frame. Once his inspection of the weapon was over he took off the safety and raised the weapon in the air and fired. Both the salvage team and the unit of gun mages turned towards the sound of the gunshot. T'mys watched this with balled fists and his jaw tightly clenched. Wasting a round to prove a point was never a good idea.

"Seems like any other firearm to me. Unloaded all it becomes is a poor man's cudgel. So, you still think you're a better warrior than a warcaster?"

"Yes." He said very softly

Captain Eaton laughed once sharply. "You're kidding I assume." Eaton said and then turned his head towards his free hand. He pursed the fingers of his hand together and began to chant softly. As he chanted a spark of fire appeared above the tips of his fingers. He slowly opened his fingers and as he did the spark of fire brightened into a small ball of flame. The fireball danced in the palm of the warcaster's hand, "Your magic is channeled through this trinket Lieutenant." he said as he held up the magelock "Without it, you're not even so much as a conjurer of parlor tricks. Real mages would never find themselves so defenseless. Armed, gun mages are both serious spellcasters and gunslingers. A… spellslinger if you will." Capt. Eaton chuckled at that last bit. He noticed that Lt. Willis was not laughing with him.

Trinket?! Conjurer of Parlor Tricks?! This debate had just taken an insulting turn. It was everything T'mys could do to keep his cool. There was a silence for a time between the men after that. The wind continued to howl lowly and the thunder continued to roar ever closer.

"What can I do for you lieutenant?" Capt. Eaton smiled, emphasizing the word lieutenant, feeling he'd just won the debate. He collapsed the fireball and turned his head towards T'mys again.

"Sir," T'mys shifted his focus back to the original reason that he'd come up here in the first place, "I think we should pull the troops back to the dig site. This fog has decreased visibility along the riverbank to nothing, and it's creeping inland. We can't see more than twenty feet now, and it seems to be getting only worse." Thomas turned to look back over his hill to see his men; "I can't even see the men from here. We should begi…"

His words were cut short as fire rained down from the heavens. Direct hits were scored on the warjack. The powerful defensive strength of its shield, which would have easily deflected such incoming rounds, was useless in its current state. Three heavy blasts crash down around the two men and warmachine. The first blast hit the ground between the two men and the warjack, pushing Capt Eaton back and launching Lt. Willis into the air and back down the hill towards his men with earth and mud flying upwards in every direction. The second and third blasts both hit the Sentinel. Both hit directly to its shield arm. The first blast to the arm destroyed the armor around the shoulder joint and broke the shoulder assembly. The second blast totally destroyed the ball in the shoulder assembly and launched the arm as a projectile. Capt. Eaton had barely begun to regain his bearing when the shield with the Sentinel's arm still grasping its handle attacked him like a flying saw blade. The weight of this newly airborne projectile severed Capt. Eaton in half just below his lowest rib, shattering his right arm and the magelock he held on the way thru. The Sentinel's former arm and shield landed some twenty feet past the captain burying itself in the mud.

Steamed spewed forth from around what was left of the Sentinel's shoulder ball assembly and the now jagged remains of the primary steam conduit that protruded forth from the remains of the shoulder. The Sentinel spun around like a drunken ballet dancer, its chain gun cannon arm throwing the warjack grossly off balance. It spun down the hill in the direction of the river. A shrill whistle sound emanated with the steam escaping out of the primary steam conduit as it bled out pressure. The cannon arm moving about wildly up and down with every turn as the warjack tried to regain its balance.

T'mys landed hard and began to roll down hill towards the river. After three tumbles he was able to stop himself. "Gun Mages! To Me!" he yelled out as T'mys began to regain his bearings. Thunderous steps came up quickly from above him. T'mys looked up just in time to see the spinning warjack twirling uncontrollably towards him. He rolled sharply, only narrowly escaping being crushed to death. When again he looked up his eyes followed the warjacks descent down the hill as it pirouetted to its stop. The hill itself saved the Sentinel from tumbling over upon itself. On a sharp downward slope of the hill's face the warmarchine's foot accidentally found strong purchase in the mud. Its chain gun cannon fully extended upwards to the crest of the hill counter balancing the sharp angle of the hill. The depth of the mud in which the giant metal foot stood had saved the warjack. Once steady the warmachine lowered its cannon arm, and not receiving any orders from its warcaster, took its soldierly stance once again, only this time bleeding steam.

T'mys picked his head up. His face now covered in mud, his hair dripping mud everywhere, the rawhide strap lost. Scrambling to his feet he began to run up the hill. His first concern was to regain his firearm. As he once again came to the crest of the hill he stopped there momentarily stunned. Two things greeted him. First the remains of his magelock; it lay completely shattered, the barrel flattened, the wood now nothing more than splinters. As if this wasn't horrible enough to a gun mage the site that next greeted his eyes chilled his soul. There lay Captain Eaton in the mud and over there laid Captain Eaton. Still conscious Captain Eaton was leaning upward as best he could, a gurgling sound coming from his mouth as he choked on his own blood. Organs and entrails lay dripping out of his chest. Intestine loops stuck to his fingers as he frantically tried to put his organs back inside himself, his life force ebbing. Eaton's waist and legs lay four feet away, oozing out blood and bile from the top. One foot pointed towards the dripping open chest, the other foot tucked under the first leg looking sorry and lifeless. Tears poured forth from Eaton's eyes, but not to be accompanied by any moans or wails, instead only that noisy gurgle of choking.

T'mys then saw the salvage team as they were charged up the hill to his location. The field mechanic had sprung immediately to duty, his gobbers carrying heavy machinery and packs full of warjack parts. He could swear he saw a warjack arm strapped to one of their backs. And the little bastards were actually smiling. T'mys then turned back towards the riverbank just in time to see Capt. Eaton lose consciousness for the last time. He saw the magic encircling him begin to flicker and fade out. He could feel the connection to the Sentinel begin to fade away. With a quick glance to the warjack he saw the electric blue glow in its eyes quickly beginning to fade. "No." he growled out the word. They needed that machine now more then ever. He reached out with both his mind and his control of magic. When he felt the circle around Eaton, he called it to him. It was extremely painful. Had there been more time he would have done this slowly, tentatively. There wasn't. He traced the patterns of the runes in the air/ether around him. By will alone he bridged the connection from the Sentinel to the captain. Like pulling at water, he pulled the raw mana to himself with his mind. When the connection that was once to between Captain Eaton and the Sentinel snapped over to Lt. Willis, it snapped like a whip. The runes faded as the link began to form between T'mys and the machine. He could feel the warjack dying. Again he urged his will and magic towards the warmachine. The Sentinel's eyes regained their illumination and then began to glow brightly. The Sentinel's head turned towards him. T'mys knew he now had control of the warjack, but for how long he wasn't sure. "Let's go." He whispered angrily. The Sentinel sensing this mental command turned towards the riverbank. The barrels of the chain gun cannon gave a short fast rotation as its helmet like head nodded once, as if to signal 'affirmative'. T'mys began to walk down the hill and the warjack marched beside him.


End file.
